


How to Woo a Girl in Lime Green Crocs

by plaguecraft



Series: Femfest 2017 [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Humor, Jewish Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, also extremely oblique reference to past Moicy, and Widowmaker wants to beat her to death with a louboutin for it, in which Mercy is a tacky lesbian, or at least dress her in something different, technically an AU?, there's mentions of a work christmas party but Mercy is very Jewish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguecraft/pseuds/plaguecraft
Summary: Sixth Prompt: Color/MonochromeAngela just needed a new dress to spite an ex by looking great at a work function. She never asked for whatever passes as "help" amongst the rich and fashionable.





	How to Woo a Girl in Lime Green Crocs

**Author's Note:**

> It's mostly for fic's sake that Mercy is a tacky femme lesbian here. But also, I do love the idea of her joining the ranks of good medical professionals everywhere who just do not know how to dress themselves at all beyond "if it's comfy and looks fun we're good to go."

“There is a gas station down the road that might suit what you’re looking for better.” Startled, Angela glanced up at the woman speaking. She was tall and thin, and staring very hard at her shoes. Angela looked down at them, she didn’t know why they were prompting such a venomous stare, they were perfectly practical and very comfortable. And the bright lime green colour was cheerful and cute. Everything she could want in a shoe, really.

“I’m sorry, what?” Maybe she’d misheard? Maybe she’d been talking to someone else or –

“I can’t believe they even let someone in here wearing something like that.” She sighs and gestures to the offending objects. The shoes again. Definitely talking to Angela, then. Though she still has no idea what she’s done to this woman to make her act like she’s personally murdered her puppy in front of her. Maybe she stepped in something on the way in? “But if you go out that door, and down the street a little ways, you’ll come on the cutest little gas station that will cater to your… _taste_ and budget, I’m sure.”

Angela blinked hard up at her, because _what in the actual fuck_? She was pretty sure she’d just stepped into a store looking for a dress for a work Christmas party, not into an alternate reality where up was down, and people actually said things _out loud_ to others like that as if there were no real-world consequences to it. But maybe she had, because there she was! The woman still standing there, waspish and clad head-to-toe in expensive black. And looking at her like she was the thing someone might have stepped in.

This was what she got for wanting to look pretty for the party, she supposed. She should’ve just gone with wearing the old cherry-print dress and been done with it. But no, she had to be fancy, do something different. Spite the ex. Nothing good ever came from that, she knew better. And yet.

“Or is there a particular reason you’ve been staring at the clearance rack for the last 30 minutes?” Oh God, she was talking to her again. If she said something mean about her teddy bear cardigan then that was it, no more Dr Nice Ziegler. The woman gave her a look, like she was assessing a horse she was about to buy. Angela didn’t like it very much. “Hmm, I guess you could look almost cute with some help. Come.”

Her hand struck out whip fast and gripped Angela’s arm, pulling her along in the intimidating black-clad woman’s wake. “What -?”

“You’re here to get something, no? And you clearly need help.” She gestured to Angela’s outfit of clashing pastels and neon’s, sugary-sweet prints liberally sprinkled in. It was all worn in, well-loved clothing. The woman accompanied her gesture with a face that made in plain that she thought that Angela shouldn’t be trusted alone with a box of crayons, let alone with the monumental task of dressing herself. Angela felt slightly dizzy at the thought that she seemed to attract such rude, filter-lacking people to her.

“Well, I guess I could use some help…” She figured it was easier to just go along with this than pick a fight, it wasn’t like she was ever going to see her again anyway. “Could I at least get your name?”

“It is Amélie. Now get in the dressing room, I will bring you clothes.”

She pushed Angela into the room, where she fidgeted nervously until the first wave of clothes came. And it was certainly a _wave_. Angela felt a little under attack. All the clothes she was told to try on, pose in, be judged in were all so drab and dark compared to what she normally wore. And _expensive_. She choked a little at the sight of the price tags. It wasn’t like she didn’t make good money, few doctors who were specialized enough to do experimental surgeries like her made _bad_ money, but usually quite a large amount of hers went back out in the form of _tzedakah_ and into community work projects. Not on clothes.

Nervously, she stuck her head around the door and asked, “Could I get something a little more, brighter? Maybe?”

If she was going to pay this kind of money for a work party outfit, then it could at least be something she liked.

Amélie narrowed her eyes at Angela, and held up a single finger. “One statement piece. And that is all.”

Angela sighed, well, at least one thing was better than nothing. They resumed the flurry of trying things on, this time with slightly more variation. Though Angela still felt ridiculous, and a little like she was preparing to go to a funeral rather than a party. Maybe some of her fun earrings would save the outfit on the day. And the pinkest lipstick she could find. Yeah, that’d definitely work.

Feeling slightly better and more confident about her choices as she paid, she almost didn’t notice as Amélie slipped a piece of paper into her pocket. She glanced back at her, confused. And Amélie lifted an eyebrow at her, completely unreadable.

“My number.” She said by way of explanation. “Coffee on Sunday, three o’clock. Don’t be late. And don’t wear those shoes.”

As she walked away, leaving Angela with her fresh buys in hand and the ever-stronger feeling that she’d somehow miss-stepped and ended up in alternate reality. Because there was no way she could’ve just gotten a date with that terrifying woman without even doing anything.

No way at all.


End file.
